by Mary Daheim
Chapter 5
Glennie and Tarrill had been frantic with worry about Dallas’s disappearance. The note had reassured them briefly but when eight and then nine and finally ten o’clock had chimed, they had begun to panic. The alarm bells had further distressed them, for they wondered if Dallas had been involved in whatever strange doings were happening outside.
It was not an easy recital; while recounting the discussion about Fraser’s family her mind’s eye kept picturing what had happened afterwards. She could almost feel his hands on her breasts and that probing knee between her thighs. It took great effort to keep her narrative going, and when she finished, Glennie expressed displeasure.
“If Father had wanted to tell us about Iain Fraser, he would have done it long ago. As for going to Fraser’s house unescorted, well, that was hardly sensible—and most unlike you, Dallas.”
Dallas started to make a sharp retort, but instead she turned on her heel and stalked up to bed. Yet sleep proved elusive. Why after such a nerve-wracked evening did she feel wide awake? And restless?
Vexed by her unsettled state, she got up and went to the window. The city lay in darkness, as patches of cloud rolled across the sliver of a moon. “You enjoyed it far more than you’ll admit ....” Fraser had said. What unspeakable drivel! She had despised his touch, loathed his kisses, hated the very sight of him turning her into a trifle for his lustful pleasures. Admit that she enjoyed it! Dallas would as soon admit she’d enjoyed a hanging on the Gallows Tree in Liberton’s Wynd. Unless it was Fraser who was being hanged, she told herself fiercely.
Resolutely she marched back to bed and tucked the covers under her chin. After a few moments, her hands strayed to her breasts, the breasts that Iain Fraser had fondled and kissed. Oh, Jesu, she whispered in a shaky tone, I did not enjoy it! She turned over quickly and muffled her face in the pillow. It was well past two when she finally slept, though she woke up several times before the wan winter light broke over the city.
“Is he really as dreadful as Glennie says?” Tarrill asked in a low voice the next morning as she and Dallas sat munching their bannock cakes.
Dallas shrugged. “I told you, I went to seek information, not to assess Iain Fraser’s masculine magnetism.” She chewed vigorously on her bannock and wished Tarrill would stop watching her so closely.
“And my Lord Bothwell? Is he as dashing as we hear?” Tarrill’s eyes darted towards the hallway where Glennie was busily polishing the oak floor.
“He’s not much taller than you,” Dallas replied. “And his ears stick out, if you must know.”
“Oh.” Tarrill was obviously disappointed.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Dallas added fiercely as she shoved a bannock cake through a small puddle of syrup, “Iain Fraser eats a great deal better than we do.”
“Now, Dallas, Marthe does her best ....” But Tarrill was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and voices drifting into the kitchen. She cocked her head to see if she could make out their visitor’s identity. “It’s John Hamilton,” she breathed, getting up quickly from the table and rushing into the hallway.
Dallas rolled her eyes heavenwards but continued eating her bannocks. Ordinarily, she would be glad to see Hamilton but after the encounter last night in Gosford’s Close she was uneasy at his visit.
Both Tarrill and Glennie were in the kitchen doorway. “Lord Hamilton would speak with you,” Glennie announced coolly. She was still vexed with Dallas for the previous night’s adventure.
“Well, show him in then,” Dallas said.
“Not in the kitchen,” Glennie hissed. “You can’t entertain a fine lord like John Hamilton here!”
“Since there’s no fire yet laid in the sitting room, where should I entertain him?” Dallas shot back. “On the front stoop?”
Glennie sighed with annoyance and went back to fetch Hamilton. He bowed as ceremoniously as if he had been in the royal presence chamber and sat down in the chair opposite Dallas.
“I hope you’ve breakfasted, my lord,” Dallas said, polishing off the last mouthful of bannock. “If not, perhaps Marthe can ....”
But Hamilton waved the idea of food away. “Nay, nay, I ate early this morning. But thank you just the same. Ah,” he sighed, “bannocks. I haven’t tasted those since my old nurse used to make them for me twenty years ago.”
Dallas was about to say that if he lived in the Cameron house he’d taste them until he had no taste left, but she decided to behave more graciously. Hamilton cut an exceptionally fine figure this morning, in a dark blue doublet trimmed with white silk and the familiar plaid draped over his broad shoulders.
“You’ve heard what happened last night?” he asked at last, when he realized Dallas wasn’t going to respond to his earlier comment.
But Dallas was slow to reply again; she felt no responsibility to shield the rakish Earl of Bothwell—but for some perverse reason she felt it necessary to protect Fraser. Dallas decided on an uncompromising fib: “Half the city has heard by now. Alison Craik hardly seems worth such a fuss.”
Hamilton gave a slight shake of his head. “That may be. But my brother Arran is fond of her and he has vowed vengeance on Bothwell in particular. It is an unfortunate situation. My brother is ....” He paused, searching for the right word. “My brother does not always use good judgment. He ... he tends to be very emotional.”
“That’s a pity. In the climate of court politics, such reactions may one day get him into serious trouble.” Dallas spoke rather stiffly, hoping that the discussion of Arran would divert Hamilton from asking her exactly how she had learned of the episode.
But Hamilton appeared to be as stiff and tense as she. “How true. I’ve long been afraid that he will undo himself by such rash actions as he now plans.”
Dallas was about to offer some words of commiseration when Hamilton swiftly changed the subject: “You were at Fraser’s town house last night, weren’t you?”
The questioning look in his brown eyes caught Dallas off-guard. Her first reaction, inspired by her customary streak of perversity, was to refuse him an explanation. But he was a kind, decent man; she could not be rude or contrary with John Hamilton.
“I supped there,” she replied, twirling the frayed linen napkin and trying to sound as if supping at Iain Fraser’s was commonplace to her. And then, seeing the unexpected look of pain on his face, Dallas attempted to extricate herself. “ ’Twas an unusual situation—-you may recall that he came here when my father ....”
But Hamilton cut her short. “Everything about Iain Fraser is unusual. I suppose,” he went on with an uncustomary note of asperity in his voice, “that’s part of his charm.”
Dallas spread the napkin taut in her lap, pulling it so hard that the material gave way at the worn centerfold. “It wasn’t his so-called charm which induced me to go there,” she asserted boldly enough but could not look Hamilton in the eye. “It had to do with a business investment—and another matter.” The “other matter” she would not reveal to him; it would sound as if she lacked faith in his ability to help her and her sisters. It also sounded like a very feeble excuse for visiting Iain Fraser.
Hamilton had turned away from her, the proud profile etched against the blackened stones of the fireplace. “Your reasons may have seemed sound enough at the time. Yet going boldly to his town house and supping with a man who …” He swerved in the chair, leaning forward with the palms of his hands against the table. “Did he ... harm you, Dallas?”
“Harm me!” she burst out. “Why certainly not! You think I’d permit Iain Fraser to take liberties with my person?” Dallas felt herself blushing furiously and decided that the best way of fending off Hamilton’s all too prescient queries was to become as indignant as possible. “Really, my lord! You have no right to presume such a dastardly thing!”
Hamilton looked wounded; he also appeared as if he wanted very much to believe Dallas’s protestations. “Forgive me,” he said, getting up from the chair and putt
ing a hand on her shoulder. “You’re quite correct, I have no right to ask such impertinent questions.”
“Your concern is not unappreciated.” Dallas hoped the prim response would close the issue. She noted that he gave her shoulder a very gentle squeeze before his hand dropped to his side; she also noted with dismay that he was bowing and saying he must be off.
“I must not intrude on your morning any longer,” he said in a very formal tone, and before Dallas could speak again, Hamilton strode out of the kitchen. She hesitated a moment, then raced after him, but he was down the steps and into the close before she got to the stoop. Whirling back into the house, she angrily slammed the door with her backside and cursed the footprints John Hamilton had left on Glennie’s newly polished floor.
For the rest of the morning, Dallas’s mood remained so stormy that both Glennie and Tarrill avoided her. It was only in the early afternoon when a messenger arrived at the door with a small package for Dallas that Tarrill summoned the courage to approach her sister.
“A man brought this for you,” Tarrill said, proffering the package to Dallas. “There’s a note attached.”
Dallas had been washing the sitting room windows, scrubbing with all her strength, heedless of the soap she was wasting. She glanced at Tarrill, wiped her reddened hands, and took the package from her sister. Glennie had come into the room and stood behind Tarrill as Dallas unfolded the note. It was brief: “You must understand and forgive my reticence. You must also forgive the untimely intrusion on our discussion. Perhaps this small token will appease you. Iain.” Dallas hesitated, then thrust the note into Glennie’s hand.
Glennie’s lips moved slightly as she read through the note. “This sounds most strange,” she said, daring to ignite Dallas’s temper. But she knew her sister well and Fraser scarcely at all. “I’m sorry, Dallas, I spoke unkindly last night.”
“You were worried,” Dallas grumbled but seemed mollified, though inwardly cursing Fraser for the cryptic reference to his attempt at ravishing her.
“Open the package, Dallas,” Tarrill urged, taking the note from Glennie. Dallas unwrapped the parcel so slowly that Tarrill had an urge to snatch it away and undo it herself. Finally Dallas lifted the lid of the little wooden box as her sisters leaned forward to see what was inside.
Perched on a tiny cushion of satin was a dazzlingly wrought silver bracelet. It was worked in the design of King Neptune with mermaids and fishes holding court beside him. Dallas stared as hard as her sisters at the bracelet’s artful design and delicate craftsmanship.
“Oh, Dallas,” gasped Tarrill, “I’ve never seen anything so lovely!”
Glennie took the bracelet from Dallas and held it by the window for a better look. “Beautiful,” she breathed. “Beautiful!”
Dallas was eyeing the bracelet with a pained expression. “It should fetch a fair price, at any rate.”
Her sisters gaped at her. “Dallas!” exclaimed Glennie. “You couldn’t sell a gift! It wouldn’t be right!”
“Fie,” snapped Dallas, “since when can we afford sentimentality? Fraser’s loan won’t last forever, so I’ll augment it with his gift. I’ll take it to Master Herriot, the goldsmith, as soon as I can. Put it back in the box, Glennie, before something happens to it.”
Glennie obeyed reluctantly and left the room to tend to her sons who were quarreling over a toy drum. Tarrill held the note out to Dallas. “He signed it 'Iain.’ Please, Dallas, you can tell me.”
“Ninny,” her sister scoffed, snatching the note and shredding it into the fireplace. And Fraser was a ninny twice over if he thought to soften her attitude with extravagant baubles.
Master Herriot grudgingly gave Dallas seven marks for the bracelet. She’d had to wrangle, badger, berate and even threaten to get that much; Master Herriot drove a hard bargain.
After leaving the goldsmith’s shop, she debated whether or not to buy some Christmas trinkets. They were going to Dunbar for the holidays, to stay with Glennie’s McVurrich in-laws, Oliver and Annie. Yes, she must take some presents along, if only as a gesture of gratitude for their hosts’ hospitality. And if she had gifts for the McVurrichs then she must have something for her own kin and Marthe. After all, seven marks was not an inconsiderable sum and, along with the remaining marks from Fraser’s loan, should last well into spring, if they were cautious.
Two days before Christmas, Donald McVurrich arrived to bring the girls and Marthe and the children back to his parents’ home in Dunbar. It hadn’t snowed for the past four days in Edinburgh, and Donald, in his laconic manner, had informed them that the road between the capital and Dunbar was passable.
They left the following morning, traveling slowly over the snow-covered roads. The sky was heavy and grey, but they made the day-long journey without running into new snow. By the time they reached the McVurrich cottage, it was dark and the wind was blowing in from the North Sea. Daniel and Jamie, who had each ridden pillion behind Donald and Glennie, were almost asleep when they reached the house, but as soon as their aunt and uncle came outside, their eyes brightened and their voices grew shrill with excitement.
The McVurrichs had worked hard to put their cottage into a festive holiday mood. Pine boughs hung over the door, extra rushlights blazed on the hearth, and a holly wreath adorned the grey stone of the fireplace. Oliver McVurrich had even relaxed his Protestant views enough to permit a wassail bowl for Christmas Eve.
Annie had borrowed enough bedding and straw pallets from the neighbors so that everyone could sleep in the house. It was too cold to put the children in the barn as they had done on previous visits. But Glennie was so insistent that the McVurrichs not give up their own bed that they relented and allowed the three girls to sleep on the floor with Marthe and the children.
On Christmas Day they ate roast goose with a savory stuffing and buttered carrots with dried parsley and freshly baked bread as white as the snow outside the cottage doors. The Cameron girls had not eaten so well in months and all three had hearty appetites. Annie watched them with great satisfaction, not realizing that deprivation as much as her good cooking made them doubly appreciative of their Christmas meal.
“You girls eat like sailors,” she laughed, putting bowls of raisin-and-rye pudding before them. “Have ye room for this, too?”
“Oh, yes,” beamed Tarrill. “It looks wonderful!”
“Speaking of sailors,” Oliver began, “have any of you heard of the strange ship which is said to sail these waters?”
Dallas looked up from her pudding. “Nay, what manner of vessel is she?”
“A carrack,” replied Oliver. “I’ve not seen her myself, but Coltie, the burn-the-wind, says he has, twice. Looked up from his forge and there she was, out on the horizon, in full sail and racing the wind. The second time he saw her from the beach, where he’d gone to gather firewood.” He shrugged. “But Coltie has been known to tell a bonnie tale now and again.”
“I believe him,” put in Donald. The others turned toward the blond-haired youth who was usually so quiet. “Why not?” he challenged, his brown skin growing even darker under his elders’ stares.
“Could be other explanations, laddie, mayhap an English spy ship,” his mother said, taking her place next to her husband. “The days of the Vikings are long past.”
Dallas found the conversation somewhat soporific. The cramped space around the wooden trestle table hemmed her in, the smell of goose fat turning rancid assailed her nostrils, and she felt a sudden urge to get out of the cottage and into the fresh air. She could not walk the familiar streets of Edinburgh here but she could explore the countryside for an hour or so and exercise both her body and her disposition.
She slipped off the end of the long bench where she had been sitting next to the McVurrichs’ youngest son, Davie. “Excuse me, all, I’m going to catch a breath of air. Mayhap I’ll take one of the horses we brought with us out for a brisk canter.”
“You’ll not canter much in the snow,” Oliver said. “But go, lassie, if
you’ve a mind to it.”
Dallas was putting on her cloak when Donald came to join her at the door. “Mayhap you’d prefer company,” he said tentatively.
It was the last thing Dallas did prefer, but she smiled at the young man. “Nay, I’d not take you from your family on Christmas Day.” Noting the disappointment in his blue eyes, she added, “But come with me to your barn and help me saddle Gala.”
They walked the short distance in silence. Once inside Gala’s stall, Donald worked quickly and efficiently, pausing only to pat the big grey’s neck after he had slipped the bit into her mouth.
“Will you be a weaver like your father?” Dallas asked as Donald led Gala out of the stall.
He gave her a swift, close look. “Nay, I’m no good at the loom. My hands and feet get all a-tangle.”
“You might find a place at court, you know. The Queen can use all the loyal men she can find. How old are you, Donald?”
“I’ll be twenty in March.” He stared down at the mare’s heavy hooves. “Is the Queen truly bonnie?” he finally asked.
“Oh, yes, very.”
But Donald shook his blond head. “My father’d thump me if I ever went off to serve a Papist sovereign.”
“He’d have to catch you first,” said Dallas with a wry smile.
That thought had apparently not occurred to Donald. “Aye,” he replied slowly, “he would, wouldn’t he?” His mouth spread into a grin.
Dallas made no further comment but swung herself up into the saddle and flicked the reins. “Come along, Gala,” she urged. The horse ambled out of the barn as Donald stood by the doorway, watching until Dallas and her mount had disappeared over a snow-covered hillock on the far side of the McVurrichs’ field.
The going was relatively easy, for the snow had frozen underneath and provided firm footing. Dallas kept Gala to a docile trot, lest they take a nasty spill. She guided the horse along the sea coast, southeast of the town. To the east, she could make out St. Abb’s head; behind her was the harbor, where the herring boats lay wintering under heavy canvas. It was rocky going and she had to slow her mount to a walk, but the view of the water was unimpaired. The waves tossed quietly, grey as the sky above, merging on the horizon so that Dallas could not tell where the sea ended and the heavens began.